


No Shelter But Me

by Ahab2631



Category: The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Dark, Does it count if the one doing the comforting is the monster who created the need?, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I went overboard on the rating and archive warnings to cover my bases, I'm about to see how dark I can go up in this bitch, Monstrously?, Psychological Torture, Sort of? - Freeform, Stockholm Syndrome, Whatever just don't come here looking for something that is even remotely healthy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 10:25:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16084199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahab2631/pseuds/Ahab2631
Summary: "It may well take me another lifetime to break you, Alina, but I will put my mind to the task."The battle on the Fold goes wrong, and before Mal can get to her, she is taken.





	No Shelter But Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Smiling_Penelope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smiling_Penelope/gifts).



> No update schedule, and never likely to be a finished piece.
> 
> Chronically under-edited.
> 
> Based on canon, not any of my AUs. Probably? I can't promise Alina will be super 17-ish (I pretend she's older in my head, anyway), and parts of her might be on the ooc side.

When I see Tamar on the gray sand, her eyes glassy and empty, he gets what he wants: I lose my cool.

I lunge at him.

Everything goes hazy, then black.

 

-

 

I wake under the canopy of a bed, woven to look like a field of stars. Wherever I am is large, the walls stone, the furniture and decorations luxurious. There are no windows, but there is fresh masonry in two places in the room, the right shape and size for windows. He’s had them covered, bricked over. I see what must be a bathing parlor through a naked doorway. The only other door is off to my left, its wood rich and middle-toned. The wood and stone aren’t right… I don’t think I’m in the Little Palace.

Oh. But of course, he doesn’t live there anymore, does he? So why would he take me there?

I want to cut my way through the wall. Through as many walls as I have to, and anyone he puts in my way to stop me.

I don’t. Because I need information more than freedom right now, and as laughable as it is that I’d get any from him, I might get something from whoever brings me food or comes with bath water or to empty the chamber pot.

I get up on silent feet and press my ear to the door. I hear nothing, so I carefully try the latch. It’s locked.

 _Patience,_ I counsel myself.

Patient is the last thing I want to be. But if he has me, he probably picked up the others, too, whoever might be left. Certainly Mal, if…. If he wasn’t caught in the crossfire.

If I have any hope of seeing them alive, I have to wait for the right time to strike.

I tell myself that over and again until all I seem to have left in me is a small, quiet lump of stone, waiting. Furious and cold.

He’s had me dressed in a black kefta. I take it off and burn it.

 

-

 

He brings food himself, and wants me to take it from his hands. When I refuse, he nods and leaves, taking the tray with him. He doesn’t get angry, he doesn’t let frustration or annoyance show. He seems dispassionate about it, actually. ‘Take the food from me or you don’t eat. It’s your choice.’

He won’t let me starve.

 

-

 

No one else ever comes into my room. I have sat at the door for hours, but I never hear voices or footsteps. It’s just silence. It’s the same through the walls. Clothing and water, fresh linens, and candles and lamp oil are all delivered while I sleep, and when I stay awake trying to catch whoever brings them, they just don’t come.

I’m alone.

_It may well take me another lifetime to break you, Alina, but I will put my mind to the task._

I can still feel his arms around me, the soft press of his lips on my head. It makes me nauseous.

_I will strip away all that you know, all that you love, until you have no shelter but me._

Maybe he just wanted me to see it coming.

 

-

 

The towels are taken away so I can’t wear them in place of the black clothing.

That’s why the sheets and blankets get taken, too. And the canopy, after I’ve torn it from its frame.

The fire is banked hotter so I don’t get too cold at night, and I take to sitting on the ground on the other side of the bed so he won’t see me when he comes in. It’s roomy over there.

I won’t put his color on. I refuse.

 

-

 

“The children?” I ask him.

“They were never in danger.”

I look at him over the top of the mattress.

“They weren’t on the skiffs, Alina.”

 _Of course,_ I realize. _He wouldn’t have risked them, not with how few of us are left._

He had said, _Fine. Make me your villain._ And he had played the part to perfection, using it to maneuver me. Even after I had fought so much, all he had done was herd me down the path he had marked. His anger had been real, I know that much. I hold onto it like a single glowing coal in a bare, frigid shack.

How many parts will he play to get what he wants from me now? And what _does_ he want, really?

 

-

 

I’m always tired. Am I sleeping too much, or too little? When I close my eyes, is it still night? With no light, I don’t know how to keep track of time.

I wake shaking and sweating whenever I try to rest. Often I’m jolted from sleep by my own screams of fear or rage or pain. Silence is the only thing that ever answers me.

 

-

 

Water isn’t enough to fill the pit in my stomach. I’m weak and shaking, and I can only guess how long I must have been kept unconscious on the journey here. A week, at the very least.

If I don’t eat voluntarily, he’ll do something to force me soon. He won’t risk letting me die, not after all the work it took to get me. And if I’m dead or half starved, I can hardly be ready when it’s time to act. I can hardly run over plans in my head, think of possibilities, think of how to find the others.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway. But taking food is two concessions, because I won’t face him without clothing on. So when I walk up to him the next morning, in black, wan from two days of being kept awake by hunger pangs, and take the tray from his hands, even though I refuse to look at him I know it’s a defeat. A surrender. Which is ok. It has to be.

Part of me knows it isn’t.

 

-

 

My linens aren’t returned.

 

-

 

He brings me a book. 

“You must be hungry for something to do,” he says. He does not prod, does not goad or gloat, does not tell me my friends are dead or the rebellion crushed. But it’s the same game as it is with the food; he holds the book out, and I have to walk up and take it. I don’t put up a fight this time. If that’s what it takes, fine. It doesn’t mean anything.

There’s no paper in the room, no ink or pens, nothing on the walls, nothing to occupy me but trying not to go mad wondering if everyone I care about is dead.

Aleksander - I refuse to call him by his self-appointed title any longer - is patient, after all. Better to wait until I am starving for any sort of human contact. Better to wait until I am less likely to spit in his face.

 

-

 

I tell myself I’m staying up to find out who’s bringing me things at night in the hope that I can either gather information or maybe even try to get help or get a message out. Is it an oprichniki? A servant? He wouldn’t let a Grisha around me, I don’t think. But no matter what I try, I can’t outwit whatever phantom is bringing me things and taking others away. It’s more difficult when I can’t tell if I’ve been trying for hours or even what time of day it is. The only measure I have is the meals he brings. Three, every day. How does he have the time? I can’t believe he never has to go anywhere.

The truth is, I’m desperate to see anyone but him. I have been denied even a mirror. 

Food, anything to do, any sense of routine or even day and night. He has made himself the only thing I have.

 

-

 

I realize I can mark the passage of time by the growth of my hair. It’s the only thing that changes here. I tried marking scratches into the back of one of the dressers, and again into the underside of my bed frame, but each time, I woke up one day to find the surfaces perfect and unmarred. He’s bringing Grisha in while I sleep. He must be. Any food I’ve tried to hide has gone the same way.

My hair reaches down about five inches past my collar bone now, which means I’ve been here at least two months, probably more.

I call on my powers often, just to keep myself strong, because the ache of the missing third amplifier is even worse than it was. The joy of summoning is a pale imitation of what it used to be. It makes me think too much of Aleksander, of the incomplete circle he began, and the consequences that I have to live with because of it. That we all must, now. 

The worst part is that I keep having the thought that I should have killed Mal when I had the chance. I was a fool to think it could be any other way. I was selfish, utterly and unforgivably. Yet if he was standing in front of me right now, I still don’t know if I would be able to do it.

Is that weakness or strength?

 

-

 

It’s one of his shadow visits.

“You can end this any time, Alina.” His voice is quiet, as if he wants to be kind. I know better. It is not kindness. It is victory. Arrogance.

I turn away from him.

 

-

 

I stand with my back to him and my arms folded. I’m looking at the discolored stone of the wall as if I can see through the window it covers. “Why are you doing this?” I ask him. My voice is raw. It sounds almost tinny to my ears. “You don’t need me to enter the Fold anymore.”

It’s a long time before he answers. “You know why.”

 

-

 

He misses a meal.

It frightens me, for a lot of reasons. Is it a rebellion? My friends? Who is he killing now? Is it some new game?

My stomach twists over on itself, but not from hunger.  No, it’s from the realization that I’m afraid he won’t come back. I’m terrified of it. His is the only face I’ve seen in… Four months? Five? More? His is the only contact I’ve had with another human being. I hate him. And he is all I have. I have to cling to the hope that my friends are out there, somewhere. That there will be an end to this other than whatever he has planned.

I’m clutching my lunch tray too hard, the one he hasn’t been back to replace with dinner.

I pick up the plate on it and throw it as hard as I can against the wall.

After a time, I walk to stand over the shards of glass. I stare down at them. The sharp lines. The points.

I hide one of the smaller ones and leave the rest where they are. It will get found, like everything else. But that doesn’t mean I won’t try.

 

-

 

When he comes back, I’ve been crying, so I refuse to turn around and face him. I just sit, leaning my side against the wall, my forehead pressed to it.

I feel his eyes take in the shattered glass on the floor.

I hear the gentle clink of a full tray being set down on the desk, and then the door as he leaves.

I cry harder. I cry because I hate him. I cry because I hate being stuck here, because I don’t know if Mal and everyone else is alive or dead, or captured or free. Were Tamar, Aidrik, Zoya, and the two Soldat Sol I’d seen able to get proper burials? They were only the ones I had seen, knew for certain were dead. It’s possible everyone died that day, that I’m already alone. Which only makes me angry for being so selfish. Again.

I cry because I don’t know what horrors he’s meting out to the world. I cry because of how much the simple kindness of leaving my meal, knowing I wasn’t going to take it from him, means. I cry because I consider it kindness at all. Because he has already worn me down that much. And because I am terrified that his plan for me is starting to work.

 

-

 

I’ve started running a nail over the flesh at the base of my thumb. It’s an absent tick. I keep finding splotches of blood on things, not realizing I’ve broken the skin.

 

-

 

My hair rests at the swell of my breasts now. I don’t bother tying it back most days, just as I don’t bathe even half the time water is brought. I just sit at the edge of the tub and watch it grow cold, trailing my fingers through it. Sometimes I fall asleep leaned against the basin.

He didn’t bring anything this time. He just stands in the doorway, his hand out for mine, and says, “Come.”

I don’t want to, not at first. To deny him, and because I don’t want to know what he has planned, and because my cage feels safer than whatever is waiting outside.

That’s why I walk up to him. But I don’t take his hand, I just meet his cool expression, my face calm but my eyes bleeding hatred.

When I follow him through the door, for a moment I can’t see. It’s too bright. In the same moment I realize what that means, I feel the rush of light as it speeds to greet me.

I nearly cry for relief: sun is streaming in through a tall, oversized window on the left wall. Pride be damned, I run to it. I put my hands to the glass, and then my forehead, to feel the warmth. I close my eyes and call it to me until I am aglow, washed in it, warmer than I have been in what feels like an eternity.

It must be early afternoon. I would have guessed evening.

“How long?” I whisper. Part of me hopes he won’t hear it. I speak so little now, my voice is hoarse.

He doesn’t answer, but I know he heard me, just like I know his eyes are welded to me, drinking in my reaction.

When I open my eyes to take in the green of grass and trees, I see something move in the shadows of the deep woods. A glint, just for a brief moment. I stare at it, not turning my head, not drawing Aleksander’s attention.

It’s Nikolai.

For an instant, I feel _relief._ Then I remember where I am.

No. Saints, no.

Aleksander raps his knuckles sharply against the glass twice, and Nikolai’s head snaps up. I know the moment he sees me, the way he leans forward on a branch and lowers his head, craning his neck.

Aleksander knew he was here. This was why he brought me. Not for the sun, but to remind me how powerless I am.

I’m a fool.

Nikolai shifts like he wants to come to me.

“Don’t,” I plea in a whisper. “Stay there.”

His head snaps to the side and he pulls back. A moment later I see why: two oprichniki are coming, a body dragged between them, dirty and starved and beaten and bloodied. It's so dirty that it takes me a moment to notice the shock of red hair. It’s grown out, now, but the long strip down the middle is still longer.  
  
My hands go to my mouth.

 

 

What is he…?

Realization dawns on me and every bit of warmth I just soaked up leeches right out of me. He wouldn’t. He--

But of course he would. He is my villain, after all.

I bang on the window, I hit it over and over with the hardest thing I can find. I yell and scream. Harshaw doesn't move. He's barely breathing. If he just looked up and to the side, he would see me.   
  
I open my mouth to plead, but stop before words come out. He’s going to do this, no matter what I say, no matter how I beg or what I offer.

 _I will strip away all that you know, all that you love,_ he had said. If I wasn’t there to see it happen, what would be the point?

“Aleksander,” I say. It’s all I can manage. I feel a sort of tremor go through him, as if he doesn’t know that there is nothing kind or loving in the word. There’s bitterness there, but it’s overshadowed by eagerness.

It gets worse. When the guards reach the little copse of trees, drop Harshaw onto his back, and hasten away, I realize that he isn’t dead. He’s weak, too weak to get up or do more than move his fingers, but he’s still there.

He squints against the sun, and as if on reflex, I turn the worst of it away so his eyes don’t hurt.

Movement catches my eyes in the shadows again, and I see Nikolai hop forward carefully from branch to branch until I can just make out the color of his skin. It’s going ashy and gray around the black, as if infection is radiating from the cracks. He leans toward Harshaw, a very different look in his eyes than had been there when he’d seen me.

“No,” I breathe to myself. “Don’t.”

Nikolai hops down out of the tree and begins stalking slowly toward Harshaw, wary as if of a trap. There is a heavy manacle around one of his ankles, and a long chain stretches back into the trees.

I pound on the glass, I yell as loud as I can to get his attention. I call his name, but he doesn’t seem to hear me.

It isn’t until he’s at the tree line, feet from Harshaw, until he begins to bare his teeth and I fling my arm up to use the Cut that he - _he_ \- steps in. He grabs my wrist faster than I can follow and pins both of my arms to my sides, his clamped around me like steel. I fight against him. I kick and I shriek, I try to bash his face with the back of my head, to slam my heel into his foot, to squirm out of his hold, but all he does is hold me more tightly.

I’m weak. Too many days, too many weeks, of doing nothing but pacing in a room.

“Shhh,” he says in some sick parody of compassion, “shhhh. He hasn’t eaten in days. It will be over soon.” 

The pleas I held back try to push out again, but I still know they would fall on deaf ears. I know it in my bones. He doesn’t care.

As if to comfort me, as if we’re looking together at something beautiful, he presses the side of his face gently to mine. He kisses my shoulder softly.

Harshaw finds the strength to try and scrabble away from Nikolai. To hold an arm up, to look for flint in a pocket that isn’t there. I see his lips moving.

When Nikolai digs his claws into Harshaw’s leg and pulls him back into the shadows, when he descends and Harshaw starts to scream, I squeeze my eyes shut. Tears stream down my face and I can’t stop the strangled keening in my throat.

My head falls back and finds a shoulder as I sob quietly. His hold on me loosens and turns to an embrace, tender and soft. His head is tucked against mine, his mouth at my ear. He’s saying something, I don’t know what. His thumbs stroke my arms while I shake.

I want to turn around, I want to hurt him. I don’t, and I’m not even sure why. I hadn’t thought it was possible to hate him more than I already did, but I had been wrong.

Eventually, I hear quiet footsteps pass behind us. He keeps me there at the window, stops my head from turning when I try to look. He murmurs to me, covering the sound, until I hear water being poured into my tub.

I should beg them for help, whoever it is. Servants, guards, Grisha.

I don’t. There would be no point. He wouldn’t let anyone near me who might listen.

The door across from mine closes softly, and he walks me into the bathroom. He stands behind me and wordlessly unbuttons my kefta, unhurried as he strips me down and guides me into the bath. I huddle against myself as he runs soap and a sponge over my skin. He washes and rinses my hair like it’s an act of worship.

When I’m clean, he draws me up, gently dabs my hair dry, and wraps me in a soft towel that could have been a blanket on my bed at Keramzin. He guides me to the bed anpd lays me down, then produces a blanket from somwhere and covers me with it.

He sits on the edge of the mattress, stroking my hair until I fall asleep.

 

-

 

The room where I saw Harshaw die is added to my allowed space.

Nikolai has been moved out of the area.

The window is left as it is, free and unbarred. Is he is that confident I won’t run? Probably not. Likely a small army of guards is posted just out of sight. Or perhaps nichevo’ya. With as many as he’s made by now, he could probably spare a few to keep me in place. Then again, why would I break my way through iron when I hadn’t bothered to cut a hole in a stone wall? I can’t believe he’s underestimating me, which means this is just some new game.

There are books here, shelves of them, and paper and ink and a quill. There’s charcoal to draw with. Cards. A chess set.

I feel like I’ve been poisoned.

I could refuse to make use of this room, but eventually I’d end up doing it anyway. I need it. I need the space, the change, the _light._ That doesn’t mean I have to touch any of the “gifts” he’s provided. But the light… that I will give myself.

Besides, I know now that I have to get stronger.

 

-

 

He wakes me with breakfast every morning. I feel drunk or drugged each time, but I make myself get up. He still insists I take the tray from his hands, or he doesn’t leave it. I have to make eye contact now, too.

Sometimes I go hungry just to avoid giving myself the chance to ask him to stay.

I spend most of my time during the days in front of the window. I can see almost the whole of the grounds through it, but I never see another soul. Not students or soldiers or servants. Eventually a padded bench is set underneath the sill, soft cushions arrayed over it.

After he brings dinner and the moon makes its path across the sky, once I’m reasonably sure I won’t get any surprise late night visits, I work. I recall Botkin’s training and run from the door of the large room to the wall past the bed, making short laps. I do pushups and sit-ups and every other exercise I can think of until I’m shaking. I channel Baghra’s lack of patience for any excuse or weakness.

Every night, it’s like I unlock the cage where my anger and fear are kept tucked away, and then push myself so far past exhaustion that, for at least a few hours, I’m safe from them. They’re quiet.

I assume he knows what I’m doing, but if he does, he makes no argument. Maybe he considers my behavior informative. Maybe he thinks I’m making progress in a favorable direction. 

I don’t care.

My hair is nearly to the middle of my back now.

I don’t think of the others anymore. I just hold on to the stone at the heart of me, warm and steady, and watch as it grows bigger every day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2/4/18: Scene at the end (the flower) taken out. Too early in the story.


End file.
